CrissCross
by Kerfect
Summary: People’s lives weave like strings in a fine cloth. You never know where and when two are going to cross. SLASH


_**Crisscross**_

_Author:_ Kerfect

_Rating:_ PG-13/R SLASH Very mild AU.

_Summary:_ People's lives weave like strings in a fine cloth. You never know where and when two are going to cross.

_A/N:_ I took a bit of a gamble with Sawyer's name. If canon will prove me wrong in the future, I shall amend it. Also, a shiny coin and ten House points to whoever can spot a glaring pop culture reference and a not so glaring Accounting one.

_Dedication:_ For **Vlada**, cause she's my awesome beta and for the very rocking **Dreamloud** 'cause she didn't let me forget about my boys.

_Fortune can, for her pleasure, fools advance,_

_And toss them on the wheels of Chance._

_-_**_Juvenal_****_ (55 AD - 127 AD)_**

When Jack had finished his 4-year residency, he promptly signed up for a specialization in emergency surgery at Cedar Sinai Hospital. He was to be working with one of the top surgeons in the world, Paul Sarbanes, a French surgeon who was doing a fellowship in Los Angeles. It was a once in a lifetime opportunity.

Jack was happy to do it. He was. He was learning a great deal working with this man. He loved his job. He loved helping people. He loved feeling needed. But the feel of the hospital, the stench of human sweat and antiseptic was stifling and he looked for a way out.

In the weeks that followed, he'd taken up visiting a small bar after work. It was right off Fairfax, nested between a law firm and a personal income tax place. He never drank, never came up to the actual bar, but he sat in one of the corner booths obscured by moving bodies and low lights. He'd nurse a club soda and watch the people. More often than not, the bartender was a shaggy blond man with a broad smile and dancing eyes. He'd get quite the tips from the ladies. Some days, the bartender's movements were too erratic, his eyes a little too bright and Jack knew that if he were sitting close enough, he would see dilated pupils.

Jack stirred the ice water with a straw, absentmindedly tipping the salt shaker onto the table top and drawing letters in the unevenly spread grains. He didn't come for a stiff drink. He came to watch the people, in their natural habitat. Far too often, Jack felt excluded, divided. Sometimes he found himself so far ahead of the pack, he didn't know how to get back into their midst. Sometimes he wondered how soft the blond hair was and did it smell smoky like the club or was it sweet. But those thoughts were fleeting and Jack never gave them much of attention.

* * *

It was on the last day of his training that he found himself having the busiest day of his entire medical career to date. A huge pile-up on the 405. A fuel truck overturned, sliding into the oncoming traffic and igniting. It took hours to sort out the bodies. The ER exploded; it was as if a war had broken out. There were way too many people and not enough rooms. People who should have been in ICU were being transported to other hospitals all over the city.

It was during this jumbled commotion that Jack saw him lying on the gurney brought in by the paramedics. The blond bartender from the bar. Someone worked him over. He was bruised and bloody, his face a red mess. Michael Oxley, Jack's friend and fellow doctor, came running up to the paramedics who had brought him in.

"We don't have any space. Try Midway. And if he's mobile, try UCLA."

The blond stilled and retched over the side of the gurney. Amid the bloody mess on the floor, Jack spotted the gleaming white of a molar.

He quickly walked up to them. "Mike, no. I'll take him."

Michael's brow creased. "Jack, there's no space. There are people coming in faster than we can treat them. Most of them are in far worse condition than a few cracked ribs and a shiner."

"Mike, I'll take him." Jack set his jaw and leveled his eyes.

Michael shook his head, narrowed his eyes and gritted, "Fine," and then stalked off to the next incoming patient.

Turning to the paramedics he asked, "What's his name?"

One of them, fishing out a wallet from a plastic bag, replied, "Thomas. Thomas Hobbes."

"Okay, Tom, can you hear me?" One blazing blue eye cracked open. Not so bright any more.

"'Ear ya fine, doc," he slurred.

"Just stay awake and don't move much. You've got a mild concussion. Shouldn't aggravate it. We're just going to take some x-rays; see what you look like inside."

* * *

Two cracked ribs and a broken tibia. Could have been worse. Jack watched from the doorway as one of the med students set the cast. Tom was dry heaving over the side of the bed.

"He does that often?" Jack asked, frowning.

"Yeah. I think he's just a little nauseous from the concussion. Could you sign the release papers? I'm almost done here."

Jack walked up to the bed. "Hey, Tommy how are you doing?"

"'M fine. Just kinda woozy." Jack pressed his lips together into a thin line.

"Does he have a fever?" Jack turned to the attending student.

"Hmm...let me check." After intense rustling, the kid looked up. "Very slight. Barely a few degrees." Jack didn't say anything and pressed his hand to Tom's upper abdomen.

"Does this hurt?" Tom hissed.

"Ribs," he murmured. The area seemed a little puffy.

"Is there any pain, at all, other than the ribs?" He didn't hear a reply. "Tom?" He looked up. Tom was out.

Jack snapped into action. "Get him on an IV. I need an ultrasound and CT scan." The med student froze in place, lost on what to do first. Jack barked, "Now!"

* * *

Fluid around the liver and a 10 cm long, 3cm deep liver laceration. After they got some liquid into his body, Tom came to.  
"I need him prepped for surgery."

* * *

The halogen lights in the operating room ceiling abolished all shadow. Tom's face looked ashen white despite the deep tan. His eyes were wide and scared. Jack took his hand for a brief moment and squeezed. 

"I give you my word, you'll be just fine."

Tom gave him a brilliant smile as the anesthesiologist fitted a mask over Tom's face and told him to count backwards from ten.

"10, 9, 8…" Tom's eyes drifted close as the anesthesia took hold.

* * *

Sawyer didn't remember much of the early 90s. In fact, the whole decade was a blur. His memories fogged over by a whirlwind of drugs, dead end part time jobs and women. Lots of women. All shapes and sizes. Some were golden blondes, some dazzling redheads, others with shocks of luscious, rich brown hair. He didn't discriminate. 

If anyone were to ask, he'd say he was looking to find himself, of course. Traveled across the U.S. Kicked up dust across the South. Stayed for a few months in New Orleans as a waiter down in the French Quarter. It was late August and stale, blistering, humid air from the marshes brought tons of tiny little bugs with it. The food was rich and spicy and the women…The women, with their sizzling hot skin and tender, plump mouths like berries, were ready for picking.

It didn't last. He ran out of money, made too many debts, and moved to Huston. After that, on to New Mexico and Arizona. Stayed in Roswell just for kicks. Never did see no fucking aliens.

Eventually found his way to the City of Angels, as all stray dogs do. Got a gig working as a bartender in a preppy bar down on Fairfax. The pay was shit, but the free drinks and tips kept him afloat. The women in LA were like no other on earth. And he'd certainly be qualified as an expert. They were cold and lifeless when you touched them. Even when they laughed, their eyes didn't. Like kissing warm, animated corpses.

There was a brawl. Or at least he thinks it was a brawl. Maybe he owed money to the wrong people or tried to buy something he wasn't supposed to, but the end result was the same. He ended up in the emergency room with some teeth missing and half out of his mind in pain.

After they poked, prodded and photographed him, they scheduled him for surgery. Turns out something ripped inside and he needed to be sewed up right away.

But all that don't matter. That all just trimmings. Decoration.

The one thing Sawyer clearly remembers out of the whole ordeal was the doctor who treated him. Right before the surgery started, his face covered in a mask with a white hat on.

Sawyer wouldn't admit this to anyone, even under intense torture, but he was terrified. Hair-turning-white, piss-in-your-pants terrified. Lying on a slab of steal like a sacrificial lamb to the god of medicine and science. How much faith did you need to have in your fellow human beings in order to let a bunch of strangers with some letters at the end of their names cut into you and pray that they would not make you any worse?

Sawyer was silently making peace with his Maker when he heard his given name called out. It was the brown-eyed doctor, his face covered by a mask and his hair hidden under a cap. He took Sawyer's hand into his gloved one and said something about giving his word that it will all turn out.

But it wasn't the words. He could have been speaking Japanese for all Sawyer cared. It was the shy smile in the corners of the mild brown eyes that pulled and crinkled them, making the brown shine in iridescent honey. Despite everything, Sawyer felt reassured. Tension and worry melted from his body. He didn't even mind the hard and suffocating mask of the anesthesiologist as she slipped it over his face and told him to count from ten.

* * *

As Jack pushed into the hard, tight heat below him, he buried his face in the crook of Sawyer's neck, gently kissing the tendons. It wasn't smoky, or sweet. Jack felt himself drowning in clean turquoise and wheat. A sense of total freedom from all things washed over him, racing through his veins.

* * *

Later, lying loosely embraced on the floor of the grassy clearing, Sawyer whispered, "You remind me of someone." His voice and dry and a little scratchy. He stretches, feeling the pleasant soreness. 

"Oh yeah?" Jack asked, running his hand up and down over Sawyer's sternum, fingering a smooth thin scar there. "Who?"

"Yeah. This guy." Sawyer smirked. "The only person who ever even cared if I were to live or die." He turned away, wishing suddenly he never brought it up.

Jack rose on one arm, turning Sawyer's face back to him. "Want to talk about it?"

Sawyer sighed and closed his eyes. "Not much to tell. He was a doctor. He fixed me. When I came out of surgery, the nurse told me he didn't work there anymore." He opened his eyes looking into Jack's brown ones. "Never did get a chance to say thanks."

Jack smiled softly, bending down to steal a soft kiss. "I bet he knew anyway," he said.


End file.
